"Anything else I can get you, sir?"
Dawson glanced up at the mess orderly standing by the table, shook his head, and smiled.
"No thanks, Corporal," he said. "I've had all I can hold. How about you, Freddy?"
"I'm finished, too," the English youth said with a contented sigh. "That hit the spot, Corporal. My compliments."
"Thank you, sir," the mess orderly said, and beamed his pleasure.
"Tell me, where is everybody, Corporal?" Dawson asked, and waved a hand at the empty mess room. "Out on patrol?"
"Oh, no, sir," the orderly explained. "This is only a stop-over base for pilots and equipment headed for the front. We don't fly any patrols from here, sir, though a few of the pilots have been taking a whack at Goering's Snoopers, whenever they get close enough."
"Goering's Snoopers?" Dawson echoed with a puzzled look. "Do you mean Nazi bombing raids on this place?"
"No, sir," the other replied promptly. "And that's the funny part of it, too. Not one of them has come within gun range of this place. Fact is, only once since they started their funny business three days ago, have we seen them. Then they were so high, they were no more than dots. I heard one of the pilots say, though, that they were long-range Junkers. Goering's Snoopers, we call them, because they seem to hang around all the time, but do nothing. I wish we did have a regular squadron of fighter planes here, though. Those Junkers get on my nerves. A darn funny business, if you ask me, sir."
Neither Dawson nor Farmer made any comment for a moment. They simply exchanged glances, and each knew what the other was thinking. Thinking of the mysterious flock of Junkers Ju-88's they had seen a hundred milesor so off the coast.
"Phantom ships, eh, Corporal?" Dawson finally spoke. "Any of the pilots who went up after them lucky enough to nail one?"
"Yes, I think so, sir," the orderly replied with a nod. "Day before yesterday they say a P-38 pilot got one of them. It was way inland near Marrakech. I heard the pilot had just enough gas to get back. It's pretty bad country in these parts for forced landing, you know, sir."
"But doesn't the C.O. know where the bombers are based?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "They're not coming here all the way from Tunisia, are they?"
"I couldn't say, sir," the orderly replied with a shrug. "All I know is what I hear around the base. There aren't many of us here. The base isn't in full swing yet. But it won't be long, and then maybe we'll have a fighter squadron here, in case them Nazis try to really start something. Funny about them Snoopers starting to show up three days ago. It doesn't make sense. But what does in this screwy war?"
Neither Dawson nor Farmer had an answer for that one, so they just shrugged, and pushed back their chairs.
"Well, thanks for the fine meal, Corporal,"Dawson said, and tossed a bill on the table. "Here, have a time for yourself when you get a pass to town."
"I sure will, and thanks, Captain!" the orderly gulped when he saw the amount of Dawson's tip. "Thanks a lot, sir. And I hope I'll be here next time you pass through."
"So do I, Corporal," Dawson smiled as he headed for the door. "And good luck."
"The same to you, sir!" the other called after him. "The same to you both!"
Outside the mess, Dawson glanced at his wrist watch and saw that it was just about time to report to Colonel Welsh in the field commandant's office.
"Let's go, Freddy," he said. "What do you think of Goering's Snoopers? I guess we spotted some of them, huh?"
"No doubt," the English youth replied, and frowned. "And a very queer business, if you ask me. Do you suppose, Dave—"
"I wouldn't know," Dawson said as Farmer paused and frowned all the harder. "But you may be right. I mean that the Nazis have got wind of something, and Goering's Snoopers are sort of keeping an eye on things. If so, that's not so good. Do you get what I mean?"
"I do, and I agree with you completely," Freddy replied at once. "But how in the world—Oh, blast it! I'm tired of trying to figure out riddles!"
They left it at that and walked in silence to the Administration Building. A sentry met them just inside the door, learned their names, and led them at once to the office of Major General Hawker, commanding officer of the recently established U. S. Air Forces Base. The two youths were admitted at once, and as Dawson looked at Colonel Welsh seated to one side of the huge desk, his heart gave a nervous leap and tried to slide up into his throat. The Intelligence Chief's face looked like that of a ghost. Rather, it looked like the face of a man worried sick; worried so sick he was seeing ghosts. However, with a tremendous effort Colonel Welsh gravely presented the two air aces to Major General Hawker who welcomed them with a smile and a few well chosen words. His face, too, showed the nervous strain under which he was suffering. Dawson, glancing from one to the other, felt the old familiar eerie tingle at the back of his neck. The old eerie tingling that had never in the past failed to serve as a warning of danger and death in the immediate future.
"Be seated, gentlemen, please," the major general was saying, and gesturing a hand toward a couple of chairs. "I—Well, Colonel, I believe you'd better begin the talking, anyway. These two officers have been working with you since the start of things. So go right ahead, sir."
Colonel Welsh nodded his thanks to the general and stared at Dawson and Farmer with eyes haggard from worry and fear.
"Bad news for us," he said bluntly. "The thing we tried to prevent has come to pass in spite of our efforts. Where the leak is, I don't know. Maybe I'll never find out. But that is not important, now. What is important is the fact that the Nazis have learned of the war conference to be held in Casablanca. In short, the Nazis know that President Roosevelt is coming to Casablanca!"
"You're sure, sir?" Dawson blurted out as the colonel paused for breath.
"As sure as it's necessary to be," the Intelligence officer replied, tight-lipped. Leaning forward, he tapped a map spread out on the top of the desk. "Take a look at this and tell me what it means to you."
Both Dawson and Farmer left their chairs to study the map. It was a large-sized navigationmap that included the eastern shores of the two American continents and the western shores of the European and African continents. The map was creased in many places, and there were many smears of grease on its surface to indicate it had been used considerably. What caught and instantly held Dawson's attention, and Farmer's also, were the many penciled markings and notes on the map. At first glance, they didn't mean much, but on second glance, their full meaning was revealed. It was very startling, to say the least.
Dawson jerked up his head and stared in half-stunned amazement at Colonel Welsh.
"This is an air navigator's chart, sir!" he exclaimed. "With a dozen different courses plotted out from the States, from South America, and from England, to here.To Casablanca!"
"That's right," the Colonel said soberly. "Every course plotted on that chartendsat Casablanca! If you look closer, you will see where the Nazi owner of that chart has penciled in the area off the coast of Morocco that he patrolled."
"Nazi owner, sir?" Freddy Farmer choked out. "You mean—"
The English-born air ace stumbled over hiswords, and before he could start over again, Colonel Welsh answered him.
"That's right, Farmer. That chart was taken from the body of a dead Nazi pilot, whose bomber was shot down in the Atlas Mountains about two hundred miles from here."
"One of Goering's Snoopers, eh?" Dawson murmured absently.
Major General Hawker stiffened and glanced at him sharply.
"What's that, Dawson?" the senior officer asked. "Where'd you hear about Goering's Snoopers?"
"The Officers' Mess orderly was telling us, sir," Dawson explained. "He said there has been a group of Nazi bombers hanging around this base for the last three days, but not too close. He said that your pilots had nicknamed them Goering's Snoopers."
"Oh, I see," the major general said with a nod. "That's right, they certainly are Snoopers. But they'll be a whole lotmorethan that—if they get their chance!"
The senior office emphasized the last by rapping a clenched fist on the desk.
"Then you know what they're up to, sir?" Dawson asked quickly. "I suppose the coloneltold you that we sighted them off shore? Is their base near here, sir?"
Dawson would have asked more questions, but the major general raised a hand for silence and looked at Colonel Welsh.
"Do you want me to do the talking, Colonel?" he asked. "Or would you rather?"
"No, go right ahead, sir," Colonel Welsh replied with a shake of his head. "After all, you've been right here where it's all been going on. Go right ahead, sir."
Major General Hawker grunted and stared down at the desk top for a moment, as though taking time out to choose his words. Presently he looked up at Dawson and Farmer. Both youths were a little startled by the glitter of seething anger in his eyes.
"The North African campaign has progressed so rapidly and so successfully," he began, "that we're way ahead of ourselves, you might say. I mean that we've been so busy doing the big things that we've had to let much detail work slide. For example, this base wasn't to be ready for another month yet, but it is in operation right now. It has been for the last three or four weeks. However, it is simply a port through which equipment and personnel pass on the wayto the battle fronts. The working staff is very small, and we have no squadron, or even a flight of planes and pilots of our own. I mean, based here for our protection. That, of course, is because every plane and pilot is needed at the front. Those of us who are behind the front must shift as best we can, until there comes a lull in the main battle, and we've the time to start tucking in the ends."
The major general paused for breath.
"So far, I've only given you a picture of conditions here," he continued presently. "Well, about ten days ago I was secretly informed through Colonel's Welsh's office that the President and Mr. Churchill were going to hold a war conference here at Casablanca. Naturally, I kept that secret. However, the Nazis must have got hold of that news somehow, either here or in Washington. We'll probably never know which. Three days ago those Junkers long-range bombers started putting in an appearance. At first, I thought they were after convoys, but pilots who sighted them off shore reported that they either kept at a safe distance, or raced away to hide in the clouds before our planes could reach them. In short, they did everything in their power to avoid air battle. In addition, theywent the limit to prevent any of our planes fromfollowing them back to their base."
"Just what do you mean by that, sir?" Dawson asked with a puzzled frown.
The major general reached out a hand and tapped a finger on the navigator's chart on the desk.
"That plane and its crew were deliberately sacrificed so that the others could get away," he said. "It happened yesterday morning. A Lockheed Lightning pilot happened to be in the air, and he sighted the Snoopers off shore. He requested permission by radio to give chase and engage them. That permission was granted. The Snoopers had a good start on him, however, and there were a lot of clouds, so the Lockheed pilot was unable to catch up until the chase had gone a good two hundred miles inland. When he started to close in, the pilot reported later, one of the bombers dropped out of formation, turned back, and gave battle. It put up a good fight, and by the time the Lockheed pilot had downed it, the others had disappeared completely. Just before turning back to fight, the German pilot dumped his full load of bombs, and they exploded in the wilderness below. That didn't help him any. Well, the bomber crashed, andno one bailed out! That struck the Lockheed pilot as being queer and as there was some smooth ground close by, he landed to take a look at his victim. He said it was not a pretty sight.Butthere were only three aboard, whereas a Junkers Ju-88 usually has a crew of at least six. Not one of those three had made any attempt to leave the plane as it fell earthward. Do you know why?"
The senior officer paused and seemed to wait.
"No, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up impulsively. "Why, sir?"
"Because there werenoparachute packs aboard the plane!" the other replied at once. "In fact, the plane was stripped bare of everything that was not absolutely essential to flying and fighting. There were no identification papers on any of the crew, though the Lockheed pilot could tell from decoration ribbons that all were veteran airmen. There was nothing except this navigation chart. The Lockheed pilot said that one of the men was holding it as though he had been about to destroy it, but was stopped by the crash. By that I mean, in one hand he clutched the chart and in the other a cigarette lighter. Anyway, the Lockheed pilot brought the map back to me, and as soon as I took onelook at it I knew the reason for the constant patrolling of those Nazi bombers. I know exactly what they are."
"It sounds like a suicide outfit to me," Dawson murmured as the major general paused. "They must be waiting for the President and his party to arrive. Then they'll let go with the whole works, to say nothing of their own lives."
"There's no doubt about it!" Major General Hawker agreed grimly. "I'm as convinced of that as though they had come and told me so. If they knowwhenthe President and Mr. Churchill will arrive, I don't know. Perhaps they will receive that signal from somebody right here in Casablanca. The way they have let convoys alone and have avoided air battle, at the deliberate sacrifice of one of their own, is proof positive that they are waiting for the one big opportunity. And even though the President's life, and Mr. Churchill's life, were spared, the loss of other lives would be almost as disastrous to the Allied cause. In short, so long as that German suicide squadron remains in existence, a terrible danger hangs over the entire civilized world. No matter how many planes we have protecting the President and his party, some of those bombers would be boundto get through."
"But their base, sir, wherever it is?" Dawson spoke up as the other paused. "If you could only find it, and—"
"Exactly the point!" the major general interrupted. "If we could onlyfind it! The only thing I've got here that could out-fly the Junkers Ju-88 is a Lightning. But the main difficulty is that I have no pilots I can order out on such a mission. I mean, should they find the base and radio its position, they wouldn't have fuel enough left to return. They'd force land in the mountain wilderness and eventually die of starvation or the heat. We'vegotto destroy those planes—andwithin the next thirty-six hours!"
"Thirty-six hours, sir?" Dawson echoed, as his heart started to pound against his ribs.
The major general looked at him gravely, and nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Just ten minutes before your plane landed I received code word from Washington that the President and his party arealready on the way to Casablanca!"
"Good gosh!" Dawson gasped before he could check himself. "Only thirty-six hours and then Goering's snooping suicides can do their stuff? Or try to do it? But—"
Dawson suddenly checked himself and looked at Freddy Farmer. For a long moment their eyes met, and then they nodded impulsively. Dawson turned to Major General Hawker.
"With your permission, sir," he said quietly, "Farmer and I would like to locate that base and radio its position so that our bombers could go over and wipe it out."
As Dawson finished speaking, silence settled over the room. Colonel Welsh broke it as he addressed his words to Major General Hawker.
"Just what I told you, sir," he said. "And by God, they'll find it, too—Bless them both!"
For the tenth time, Dave Dawson checked his position and made absolutely sure that he was where he was supposed to be. For the tenth time, countless fears shot through his brain to taunt and jeer at him. He wasn't at the agreed rendezvous point. His navigation was all cockeyed. He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred miles south of it. He was—
"Cut it out, fellow!" he ordered himself. "This is a fine time for you to go haywire! You're simply here ahead of time. Your watch tells you that. Freddy was held up a bit, that's all. Maybe he ran into a bit of weather, or something. Maybe—"
Or something? But what? That was the question! Freddy Farmer could fly through the toughest weather made. He was that kind of pilot. It was crazy to think that weather would hold up Freddy. But where was he? Why wasn't he here?
These tantalizing questions pounded in Dawson's brain like the booming of big guns. He clenched his teeth and gripped the controls of the Lockheed Lightning so tightly that the knuckles of his hands showed white through the skin. That this was perhaps the last flight he might ever make didn't bother him much. What did was the fear that Freddy and he might fail in the successful completion of this vitally important mission. And that fear was doubled when he realized that the odds were all against them. Yesterday when they had volunteered for the job Major General Hawker had told them in no uncertain terms that their chances of finding the secret Nazi bomber base were about one in a thousand, and their chances of coming back alive were about one in a million.
Yes, the odds were all against them, but that didn't matter. They'd had the odds against them before and had won out. So right after leavingMajor General Hawker's office they had selected two Lockheed Lightnings on the field and flight tested them thoroughly. By then darkness had settled, so they had gone to one of the field hutments and tumbled into bed with their clothes on, so that there would be no waste of time in case they had to make a night take-off in a hurry.
Good fortune was theirs, however. They each had twelve solid hours of sleep before word came that Nazi bombers were sighted off the coast. Five minutes later they were both in the air, but instead of flying out to sea, they carried out a prearranged flight plan. Dawson had flown northward to circle around to the east and then southward to a point over the middle of the Atlas Mountains. And Farmer had flown south with the idea of circling eastward, and then up north to rendezvous with Dawson. One of them would be sure to cross the path of the Nazis winging back to their secret base. The instant one of them spotted the Nazis he would code call the other over his radio and give his position and course. The other would head that way at once, join up, and together they would trail the Nazis to their base, and then code call Casablanca where a hastily assembled squadron ofAmerican bombers was waiting.
Yes, a very carefully thought out plan of action, except for one flaw. And that one flaw was making itself known right now as Dawson coasted the Lockheed about in the North African sky over the prearranged rendezvous point. In short, he had not seen the Nazi bombers, and he had not heard so much as a whisper over the radio, though he had called Freddy Farmer several times for a check. No bombers! Radio silence since Casablanca! So—
"So," Dave said to himself as he tried to still the fearful pounding of his heart, "So something has happened to Freddy! He's bumped into trouble, and his radio went haywire on him. Or he's lost and has missed the Nazis completely. Or—or he's dead!"
Dawson hardly realized that he had spoken the words until they were out. Their echo in his ears caused his mouth and throat to go dry, and fingers of ice to curl about his heart. He shook his head savagely and pounded one clenched fist on his knee.
"Stop it!" he ranted at himself. "Don't even let yourself think of it, you dope! Freddy will show up, or call you. He's just got to. He's—"
He cut the rest off short and stiffened in hisseat as he caught sight of a plane ripping through the air toward him. As he opened his mouth to let out a shout of joy at meeting up again with Freddy Farmer, his breath stuck in his throat.
"But that can't be Freddy!" he mumbled as he squinted his eyes at the oncoming plane. "That plane is coming from the east, and Freddy would be coming up from the south. And—Hey! My gosh! That—that plane isGerman! It's a Messerschmitt 109, a Nazi fighter plane, and heading right my way!"
He cut off the last with a vigorous shake of his head, as though to clear his vision. However, when he took another look, the plane was still a Nazi Messerschmitt 109, and it was still racing straight toward him from out of the east. A moment later, though, just as Dawson instinctively slid the guard off the electric trigger button of his guns, the on-streaking Messerschmitt swerved southward, and its nose went slanting up in a climb.
"What the heck?" Dawson cried, as a faint sensation of disappointment rippled through him. "Is he getting cold feet so soon? Or didn't he see me?"
A couple of moments later, his last thought seemed to be proven true. The Messerschmitt pilot leveled off after he had climbed a couple of thousand feet, and Dawson could tell by the decrease in the plane's speed that the pilot has eased back to cruising throttle. No more than a couple of miles separated the two aircraft now, and though the Messerschmitt was perhaps three thousand feet higher than the Lockheed, Dawson knew that he could close in on the Nazi in no time, if he wished to.
That was just the point. Where a few moments ago he had been ready and eager for battle, he was now filled with a sense of caution. For one thing, what was a Nazi ME 109 doing over the Atlas Mountains? Was it close to its base—the same base used by the mysterious Junkers bombers—or was the pilot lost and wandering about in the North African heavens hundreds and hundreds of miles from where he should be? And for another thing, why hadn't the Nazi spotted him? Was the pilot dead, and was the aircraft simply flying itself until it ran out of gas?
"Or is this a smart trick, and I'm too dumb to catch on?" Dawson muttered the next thought aloud, and stared at the other plane that was now circling slowly about in the air. "Is he waitingfor me to come piling in, because he has some special surprise package waiting, or what?"
As he mulled over the question in an effort to guess at an answer that might be close to the truth, the Yank air ace searched the surrounding skies. However, if he expected to see any other planes in the heavens, he was doomed to disappointment. As far as he could see in every direction there was nothing but sun-tinted blue North African sky and a few mountains of clouds piled up here and there.
"MaybeI'mnuts!" he groaned, and gave a little shake of his head. "Maybe I'm just seeing things. Or maybe I'm asleep and dreaming, but don't realize it. Well, one German less is one German less, I always say. So here goes for that bird tooting around up there. He'll—Well, for cat's sake! Now what?"
The last was because the Messerschmitt pilot had suddenly ceased his coasting around and had swung onto a course due south at an increased speed. And though Dawson gaped and stared in amazement, he let no "sky grass" grow under his feet. He instantly swung south and opened up his two Allison engines, but continued to maintain his altitude of some three thousand feet below the other plane.
For a full five minutes, the Nazi rocketed south with Dawson some two miles behind him and holding steadily to the pace. At the end of that five minutes, though, the Messerschmitt reached the edges of one of the towering mountains of clouds in the sky. Impulsively, Dave opened his throttles so that he would not lose the Messerschmitt in the clouds. The action was unnecessary for the German pilot swerved to the east just before he came to the clouds. Once again his abrupt change of speed showed that he had eased back to throttle cruising.
Anger took the place of amazement in Dawson, and he was on the point of slamming up to give battle to the Messerschmitt, when suddenly twelve Junkers 88 long-range bombers came sliding out from under the mountain of cloud, looking for all the world as though they were rolling their wheels across the peaks of the Atlas Mountains.
So suddenly and so weirdly did they appear that for a second or so Dawson was unable to realize what they were. When truth came to him, he sat up stiff and straight in the seat and let out a yell of excited relief.
"Goering's Snoopers!" Dave cried. "There they are, the bums, as sure as shooting! And ontheir way back to their base. No doubt of it, and, so help me, that Messerschmitt must be some kind of a lone escort come out to meet them and lead them home. Sure! There he goes sliding down, now. But—but where is Freddy? Where is good old Freddy? He made his flight south, so he must have crossed their path. He—!"
He cut his own words off abruptly as a squealing noise sounded in his earphones. It rose and fell, and rose and fell again. Although he worked furiously over the tuning knobs of his panel set, he could get nothing but the squeal's. That is, nothing but squeals for the next minute or two. Then, suddenly, the squealing sound stopped, and a single spoken word came through as clear as a bell.
"Noswad!"
That single word made Dave's heart pound furiously, because it was his own last name spelled backwards; because it was the signal call Freddy Farmer was to use when getting in radio contact with him. No sooner had he heard the code call spoken once, than the squealing sound filled his ears again. Whether it was Freddy's set or his that had gone haywire, he could not tell at the moment. He simply put his lips to his own mike and shouted Freddy's code callat the top of his voice.
"Remraf! Remraf!" he shouted. "Can you hear me, Remraf? Over!"
The only reply that he received was the continued squeal in his earphones. Once again he called Freddy, but the result was the same. Impulsively, he checked his own set as best he could, but found nothing wrong with it. As a matter of fact, to make definitely sure that his own set was in perfect working order, he sent out a signal call to Casablanca Base and instantly received a reply that came in loud and clear.
"So that settles that," he grunted. "Freddy's set has gone haywire. He probably picked up those Snoopers long ago and hasn't been able to contact me up to now. He's around. I can't see him, but he must be around somewhere doing his job of trailing those Snoopers back to their base. With his eagle eyes, I'll bet a million buckshecan seeme!"
His heart overflowing with joy at the knowledge that Freddy Farmer was alive and still flying, Dawson left his set tuned as fine as possible and gave all of his attention to the Messerschmitt-led air cavalcade of Junkers 88's that was sliding through the air over the mountain peaks.They were all well below Dawson's altitude now, and all he had to do was to throttle to their speed and hug the sides of the cloud banks. True, there was a small chance that he might be sighted, silhouetted against the clouds as he was, but that was the chance he had to take. If he was sighted, he knew that it would be the Messerschmitt 109 that would turn back to drive him off, and so he kept his gaze on that plane and paid little or no attention to the bombers.
Eastward and then southward the Nazi planes flew, and then at the end of some thirty-five minutes, they changed their course to the east again, and then northward. Most of the Atlas Range was out of sight now. Ahead lay barren country that looked as though nothing, not even a blade of grass, had ever lived there. Farther ahead was the border line between Morocco and French Algeria, but of course there was nothing to mark it. Nothing, for as far as the eye could see there was only wasteland. These barren lands of the western rim of the Sahara Desert seemed to shimmer and tremble in the blistering heat of the sun. Even the banks of clouds were gone now. They had been left over the Atlas Mountains, and the sun blazing down made Dawson's throttles feel like red hot pokers,despite the fact that he was some twelve thousand feet in the air.
As a matter of fact, the constant glare of the sun, and the intense concentration on the Nazi formation ahead and below him strained his eyes to the utmost, and he began to see crazy objects and shapes that were no longer there when he took a second look.
It was because of this that he paid little or no attention to a gray-green blur that appeared on the barren earth just ahead of the Nazi planes. That is, he gave it scant attention until he suddenly realized that the Nazi pilots had cut their throttles, and in follow-the-leader style were circling around and down toward that gray-green blurr. Shoving up his goggles, he dug knuckles into his smarting eyes, then impulsively leaned forward as though that bit of movement would afford him a better look.
But whether or not it did, he certainly saw more than he had the first time. The gray-green blur was a small group of shrub-covered hills that rose right up out of the desert. That it was some kind of an oasis was evident by the patches of pale green here and there.
One thing was definite, however. To Dawson it was the only thing that mattered. That gray-green patch on the seemingly limitless expanse of shimmering and quivering Sahara was the secret base of Goering's Snoopers! He had found it! There it was! The first two of the bombers were already on the ground on the eastern fringe of the gray-green patch. They looked like beetles as they moved along over the ground.
A wild, fierce joy surged up in Dawson as he stared down at the place, but when he happened to glance at his fuel gauges, a tiny icy shiver went through him, and his joy was tempered by cold, hard reality. He had fuel for about another half hour in the air. Fuel enough to take him a fraction of the distance back to his Casablanca base. What he had expected had happened, but only now did the full significance of it descend upon him.
"But we found it!" he shouted wildly as he put his lips to his flap mike and reached out to tune his set to the Casablanca Base wave length. "And that's what matters most. Now to tell Casablanca and—"
At that moment Dawson's ears were filled with the savage yammer of aerial machine guns and air cannon, above and behind him!
One, two, three seconds slipped by before Dawson could move a single muscle. It was as though invisible hands of steel held him powerless. Only his eyes and brain seemed able to function in that short space of time. His eyes saw the top left section of his glass hatch melt away as if by magic. His brain told him the shambles that was suddenly made of his instrument board and radio panel would never in all this world permit him to contact his Casablanca base. The golden moment had come—and gone.
Keeping alive was his prime concern now. The Grim Reaper was savagely striving to cutlife short for one Yank air ace!
In three seconds Dave Dawson became a flying madman. Instinct, and instinct alone, caused him to whirl the Lockheed up, over, and down in a half roll. Hardly had he started the maneuver, than he kicked the ship over on wing and came around back and straight up toward the sun-filled sky. Not until he had reached the peak of his power zoom did he take so much as a second for a look around. But now he did race his eyes about the sky, and rage boiled up within him as he saw three German Messerschmitt 109's pulling out of furious power dives, and prop clawing around and up in an effort to "box" him in a perfect cross fire.
"Not today!" he thundered wildly, and dropped the nose of his Lockheed. "You had one swell chance, because I was too dumb a sap to think of keeping eyes in the back of my head. That's the only chance you'll get. You didn't make good, and now it's my turn. Hey! You there on the right! How do you likethisfor a tasty dish?"
As he shouted the words, he touched right rudder a bit and slammed down almost at the vertical, straight for one of the power-zooming Messerschmitts. The German pilot must havethought that ramming was the one idea Dawson had in mind, because the Nazi plane suddenly fell over on its side and started to circle away to avoid a mid-air crash. But ramming was not Dawson's idea. No, not while he had slugs for his aerial machine guns and shells for his air cannon. However, he waited until the last second before he gave the Nazi aircraft everything the Lockheed had. The almost instantaneous result indicated that it was much, much more than enough. One minute the Messerschmitt was curving away, and the next it just wasn't there any more. That is to say, it was just a shower of flaming and smoking embers falling away to the sun-scorched Sahara far below.
"One!" Dawson bellowed, and cut his fire.
Yes, one! And that left two others in the sky. However, those two were crafty veterans of theLuftwaffe, and they had not been wasting time. Nor had their actions been with the idea of getting away from the wild, mad flying Yank eagle. On the contrary, they had simply maneuvered to await their time. And that time came as Dawson cut his fire and started to wheel up out of his thunderous power dive.
As he started up, those two let fly at him. Maybe both hit the mark, or maybe one of themmissed completely. But what did it matter? The mark was hit, and the "mark" was Dawson's plane. The air all about him seemed suddenly alive with tracer smoke, and the Lockheed Lightning acted as though it was about to fly right out from under Dave. He was hurled back against the headrest with a force that filled his head with winking stars. Then the Lockheed whipped up over on its back, dropped its nose and headed straight down like a meteor gone berserk. Thunder roared in his ears, and before his eyes exploded and flashed all the color combinations in the world. In his nose was the acrid stench of smoke.
"Your turn, this time, pal!" he heard his own voice shout, as he went hurtling downward. "No! No, it isn't, darn it!You'renot hit.You'reokay! Hit the silk, you dope! Bail out! Hit the silk! If you—"
He choked off the rest, or rather fear choked off his words, as he suddenly heard the renewed bursts of savage aerial machine-gun fire. His ship shot to ribbons, and falling to earth in flames, yet those two Nazi vultures were still pumping death at him.
"But why not?" he reasoned. "They're Nazis, aren't they? What else would you expect thesekilling rats to do?"
Even as the thought slipped across his brain, a new one crowded close on its heels. Rather, it was a realization. The realization that there was not one bit of pain in his body as he struggled to free himself from the burning Lockheed. And also that no ribbons of tracer smoke were cutting past him. So what were the Nazis shooting at? At each other, or—
Before he could finish the question he had managed to fight his way up out of the pit, and dived headlong into sun-filled thin air. But it was not his own movements that stopped his unfinished thought. On the contrary, it was the sight of a wingless Messerschmitt 109 hurtling down to its doom about three hundred yards from where his own body seemed to hang in mid air.
"Hey!" he gasped. "Did I get another one? Did I get two, and I'm just finding out? But how the—"
And he didn't finish that question either. He didn't, because at that exact instant the gods of war, as though angered by the fact that he still lived, tried one last time to finish him off. At any rate, at that exact moment a piece of his riddled Lockheed Lightning flew off. Straightand true as a ball pitcher's perfect strike it cut across the air space toward him. He actually saw it coming out of the corner of his eye, and he tried to duck as his body slowly tumbled end over end downward. But he didn't succeed in ducking, or he didn't duck in time. Something hit him a smashing blow on the side of his head, and the entire North African sky blew up in a thunderous roar of sound!
When consciousness returned to Dawson his first hazy impression was that he was floating about in the middle of a great sea of black ink. But no, not everything was that black. At regular intervals a faint yellowish orange glow appeared before his eyes. But before he could get a good look at it the glow faded away out of sight. Instinctively he tried to get his brain to function; to get it to figure out what everything was all about. However, for a long time he somehow just couldn't force his brain to make that effort. He simply lived in a world of hazy snatches of thought, and inky darkness lighted now and then by a yellowish orange glow.
Eventually, as though secret curtains had been pulled away inside his head, memory came slipping back, and he began to discover and realize things. The first realization was that hewas hanging suspended in mid-air and slowly swaying this way and that. The second realization was that the darkness was the darkness of night. The third realization was that there was a dull throbbing on the left side of his head. And the fourth, and perhaps the most important realization of all, was that he was dangling at the ends of the shroud lines of his parachute, which was hopelessly fouled in the crooked and gnarled branches of a scrub tree. By throwing his head way back he could look upward and see his fouled 'chute and the tree branches silhouetted against the billions of stars that twinkled at him from high overhead. And when he looked down he saw that rocky ground was not over three feet from the soles of his flying boots.
That realization filled him with great joy, but it also made him gulp, and caused beads of cold sweat to break out on his forehead. Never as long as he lived would he be able to remember that he actually had pulled the rip-cord ring of his parachute whether or not that flying bit of Lockheed wreckage caught him on the side of the head. But he must have done that little thing, and by the grace of God and Lady Luck he had not been allowed to strike ground while still unconscious. To have done so, to have hitground without being prepared for the landing shock would unquestionably have resulted in a couple of broken ankles, if not legs. Particularly because of the rocky soil under him. However, one chance in a billion had come to pass, and his journey earthward had been checked in the nick of time by the crooked and gnarled branches of the scrub tree.
"Or maybe it's just a dream!" he whispered hoarsely as he fumbled at the snaps of his parachute harness. "Maybe it's just a cockeyed dream, and I'm going to wake up stone dead!"
The words he spoke, however, were just a means of letting off pent up steam. He got the 'chute harness snaps undone, grabbed the straps with both hands and slowly lowered himself until his feet touched solid earth. However, his body had experienced so much swaying motion that his sense of balance was all upset. And no sooner did his feet touch, and had he let go of the harness straps, than he fell stumbling down onto his hands and knees, and his brain started to spin furiously.
For the next few moments he was content to sit on the solid earth and wait for his brain to stop spinning and for fresh strength to flow back into his body. Then finally he slowly arose andpeered about in the darkness. Just where he had come to earth he hadn't the faintest idea, but it seemed a good guess that he must be somewhere in the region of that weird group of shrub-covered hills that marked the spot where he had seen those Junkers 88's go down to land. That guess caused countless little fears to start pecking at his brain. How close to that secret base was he? How come he had been left hanging unconscious on his parachute shroud lines for the rest of the day? Where was Freddy Farmer? Had Freddy really been trailing those bombers, too? Had he reported the location to Casablanca base? Or was his radio truly dead, and did Casablanca base still not know the truth? What time was it, anyway? Had he been unconscious for just a few hours? Or had it been for a day and a night, and had Goering's Snoopers already roared out from their hidden base to do their devilish dirty work?
Those and countless other soul-tantalizing questions whipped and spun through his head as he searched about him in the gloom. Suddenly he spotted the yellowish-orange glow once again. He judged it to be perhaps a mile away, but he was unable to see the base of the glow because of a rise in the ground. After one goodlook, though, he knew that it was flame. Rather, a column of flame-tinted smoke that rose upward into the night sky. Having seen that same sort of sight at night in other parts of the world, he was pretty sure that the yellowish-orange glow was from the burning wreckage of a plane.
"Mine, or that Nazi I nailed?" he asked himself the question aloud. "Or—Hey! I remember, now!TwoNazis went down, and I know darn well that I only got one of them. I—"
He stopped short, caught his breath and held it as though not daring to let himself speak.
"Freddy?" the whisper finally came out from between his stiff lips. "Was it Freddy who piled down and nailed that second Nazi? But—But what then? Where did he go? What did he do? I know he didn't have fuel to get back to Casablanca, but ifonlyhis radio worked, and he was able to tell them the story! Please, dear God, let Freddy have made good where I—I failed."
For a long minute he stood there motionless as though waiting for the answer to his question to come drifting down through the night air. Suddenly his hand flew to his holstered service gun, and he whirled around and down in a crouch. Behind him, he had heard the crackling snap of dry twigs, followed by the rattle of loosestones hitting together, and the faint thud of something falling to the ground.
With his finger crooked about the trigger, and his heart trying to slam-bang its way out through his ribs, he waited for more sound. And when it came to him, he didn't know whether to shout with insane joy, or to break into crazy laughter. He didn't know which to do because the sound he heard was a human voice; a hoarse whispering voice that was filled with seething anger. A voice that said:
"Blast, and eternally blast this confounded darkness!"
For five full seconds Dawson was utterly unable to unhinge his frozen tongue. The one-in-a-billion miracle left him completely speechless. It seemed to knock everything out of his head and make all so unreal and fantastic as to be absolutely impossible as an actuality.
"Freddy! Freddy Farmer!" the words finally forced their way past his lips. "Freddy! Can you hear me? Over here, Freddy! Over here!"
As his voice died away to an echo, a tingling moment of silence settled over everything. Then once again he heard Freddy Farmer's voice, like a ghost voice from out out of the past.
"Dave, Dave! Keep talking, old chap! I'llfollow the sound of your voice. Dave, old thing, are you all right? Don't move, Dave! Just keep talking! I'll follow the sound of your voice!"
"I'm okay, Freddy!" Dawson replied as hot tears of inexpressible joy stung his eyes. "And, pal, this is the biggest moment of all, past, present, and future. I'm over this way, kid. I can hear you now. Over here, Freddy! Gosh, oh gosh! Am I glad to—"
He never finished the sentence because at that moment a darker shadow than the night suddenly materialized at his side, and in the next instant the two air aces were hugging and thumping each other and mumbling a lot of things that neither of them heard, much less paid attention to. Finally, though, they ceased the greeting act and calmed down.
"Man, Dave!" Freddy Farmer panted. "I thought I'd never reach you. A thousand times I swore I was lost and heading in the wrong direction. Phew! What absolutely unbelievable luck! I'll never forget this as long as I live. Not ever, I swear it!"
"You and me both, Freddy!" Dave echoed the statement. "But look! You were trailing those bombers? And it was you who nailed that Messerschmitt right after I started down in aheap, and—But wait! Tell me this, first. Your radio was okay, wasn't it? And you notified Casablanca base, didn't you?"
The air came out between young Farmer's lips in a whistling gasp, and he grabbed hold of Dawson's arm.
"Dave!" he choked out. "Dave! You meanyoudidn't let them know?"
Dawson was unable to answer for a moment. His whole body seemed to turn into a solid chunk of ice so that he could hardly breathe. It required a tremendous effort to get the words off his lips.
"No, Freddy," he said. "Just as I started to tune in Casablanca, that Messerschmitt bunch gave me the works and shot my set into splinters. Then—then your radiowasout? I tried to raise you several times, but couldn't."
"The blasted thing went haywire after I'd been in the air only fifteen minutes," the English youth replied. "I had half a mind to turn back to Casablanca, but I didn't dare for fear the Junkers might be down my way. They were. I sighted them coming in over Magador. They were hugging the clouds. I gave them a few miles and then tagged along. I tried to raise you, but I didn't get any answer, so I just carried on.About an hour later I spotted you trailing a Messerschmitt. I tried to rise you again, but still no answer. Then when we got close to here I saw those three Messerschmitts drop down on you. I was above the lot of you, so I saw everything. Man! I thought I'd die when you did nothing, and just let them come down!"
"Dumb ape that I am," Dawson said bitterly, "I was so interested in watching the Junkers that I didn't think to keep an eye on my tail. I heard your call once, Freddy, though I couldn't spot you. You did get one of them, huh?"
"I got both, with a bit of luck," young Farmer said quietly. "But not before one of the blighters had put a bullet through my port engine's oil line. All I could do was force land. I saw your parachute open, and saw your silk foul in a tree near here. I tried to land as close as I could, but messed things up something terribly. A blasted awful landing. I was lucky not to have broken my confounded neck. I think I was knocked out for a spell. Fact is, I'm sure of it, because it was late afternoon when I collected my senses. I could see this bit of a hill where we are now, so I started out for here. Good grief, what country! The Alps are easier to cross than this bit of ground. When it got dark, it was just three timesas bad. But—Well, thank the Lord I finally reached you!"
Dawson said nothing. He simply groped for Freddy Farmer's hand, found it, and pressed it hard.
"That was rotten luck for you, and just plain dumbness on my part," he finally got out in a groan. "Those are the two reasons for our failure. Gosh! If I had a knife, I think I'd be tempted to cut my throat. When I think how close we came to preventing those bombers from raiding Casablanca, I—"
"But they haven't taken off yet, Dave!" Freddy cried excitedly. "It's still not too late, if that's what you're thinking!"
Young Farmer's words seemed to make Dawson's heart swell up and explode in his chest.
"What?" he gasped. "Haven't left yet? But it's well over the time limit, Freddy! According to schedule, the President's party should have arrived at Casablanca early this evening, and—"
"Maybe it did, but the bombers haven't taken off!" young Farmer interrupted. "While making my way here, I saw their hidden field from some high ground. That was about an hour ago. They had a few oil pot flares burning, and I could see the planes. All props were dead. Theyhaven't left yet, Dave. My guess is that the President's party has been delayed a bit, andtheyknow it! And, Dave! There are more than just Junkers there, too. At least half a dozen Messerschmitt single-seaters, not counting the ones we got, and a two-seater Messerschmitt 110."
"No kidding?" Dawson breathed, and swallowed hard. "Then that checks with the thought I had. I mean, those bombers have a fighter escort to protect their secret base in case a stray plane or two found it—like what happened to us. But I think the big idea of their being here is to sail out to give the bombers a better chance to get through when the big moment comes. They must be 'Number Two Suicide Squad' because they'd never get back here on the gas they carry!"
"Absolutely!" Freddy Farmer replied at once. "No doubt of it. When the bombers were sure of their target, they'd radio the Messerschmitts to come on the jump and lend a hand. Dave, old thing, we're not all washed up yet! Don't you understand?"
"And how! I understand!" the Yank air ace said grimly, and got up onto his feet. "Do you know the way to that secret field from here,Freddy?"
"Yes," the other replied. "But it's about two hours of blasted hard going. We've got to be very careful. I think the blighters have patrols out hunting for us. I heard a few Jerry voices while I was making my way here. By the way, that glow over there is your aircraft still burning. Never knew a plane to burn so long."
"So that's what it is, huh?" Dawson remarked absently. Then, reaching out, he gripped Freddy Farmer's hand. "Let's go, pal," he said quietly. "Don't ask me if I have any plans, because I haven't a one, yet. But let's get to that field and decide when we get there. One thing is in our favor, anyway. We're both still alive and kicking. If you ask me, that's plenty for a starter!"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed, tight-lipped. "We're both still alive, so we're jolly well not licked yet!"
"Check, and triple check!" Dawson grunted. "Let's go!"